Winner Take All
by ibreak4CSI
Summary: ShannonBoone. Probably, this game will end up spinning out of control.  Probably, they'll both lose.  But she can't let it go.


A/N: This is my first Lost fic. Enjoy! Comments, be they praise or constructive criticism, are always welcome.

Disclaimer: Lost is obviously not mine, or Boone would have been in a lot more episodes.

Winner Take All

I.

The first time Shannon meets Boone, she doesn't want to like him.

Her father is introducing her to some woman she hates, and why should the son be any different?

But his eyes are so pretty and nice, and his smile all shy and hesitant when he steps forward and says, "Hi. I'm Boone."

Maybe he isn't going to be so bad.

II.

So, they become friends. Unlikely, and not unnaturally close, but he knows her favorite food and she knows his favorite movie. So, he makes her chocolate chip pancakes, and she pretends to be annoyed when he pops Star Wars into the VCR _again_ (and then she quotes all the best lines along with him).

III.

By the time she is fourteen and he sixteen, their relationship has shifted a little.

He's protective of her, and she's happy to hang out with him, but it's no longer okay to fall asleep curled up together in his bed after a late-night movie session.

IV.

On to fifteen, and Shannon gets her first "real" boyfriend.

Boone has already had a girlfriend for a while. This is his third, actually.

Shannon doesn't like her.

Come to think of it, Shannon never likes Boone's girlfriends.

It turns out, Boone doesn't like her new boyfriend either.

But _so what_, he's not the boss of her, and she tells him that, rolling her eyes when he protests that the boy's no good.

And yeah, okay, so it turns out that Boone's right, like the guy really needs an ego boost.

Shannon yells at him the night they break up, shouting that it's all his fault. She doesn't know how, but it's all his fault, and why couldn't he have just been nicer to Dean and…

Shannon doesn't know exactly how it happens, but somehow, she stops yelling and collapses against him. His arms are warm and strong around her, and he tells her _breathe just breathe_ and doesn't even comment when she wipes her nose on his shirt.

V.

She's sixteen, wearing her first string bikini, and she careens around a corner and accidentally runs into him.

The glass he was carrying shatters on the cold tile, and a wave of cool water douses her perfectly pink painted toes.

Funny thing, though.

It didn't slip from his fingers until after he got a good look at her.

He tries to cover it, "Oh God, Shannon, sorry!" and babbling something about drying off and that since she's not wearing shoes, she shouldn't move until he gets the glass cleaned up, and by the way, she really should watch where she's going.

But his face is flushed and he won't make eye contact and all of the sudden, _she knows_.

And she feels it.

_It._

Because _of course_, she's always had a little bit of a crush on him. It's not like they're related for real, and have you _seen_ those eyes of his? Shannon is many things, but blind isn't one of them. So, she looks her fill and maybe she dreams occasionally, but she never even considers mixing fantasy up with reality.

She's already seen too many friends get hurt by that.

But in addition to the joy of reciprocated attraction, she feels this immediate, immense surge of power from this control she suddenly understands she wields over him.

The combination is heady, and as soon as Boone turns his back, she tosses her beach towel over the glass and saunters off, deliberately going against his advice.

And so it begins.

VI.

The next night at dinner, she conducts a little experiment.

She wears a new top, her favorite earrings, and just enough lip gloss for a subtle shine.

Dinner is at the family dining room table like it is every Wednesday night, attendance mandatory.

Chocolate mousse appears for dessert.

His mother leaves then – sweets would not aid her in her current dieting efforts – and the moment she is gone, Shannon's father heads to his study to finish up some work.

It's just the two of them left. And the chocolate.

Rich, heady, light, delicate, all at once.

Perfect.

She luxuriates in the sweet dessert, savoring the taste and texture, letting out a couple tiny moans of enjoyment. When she is finished with her serving, she swipes her index finger along the bottom of her bowl, extracting the last bits of chocolaty goodness.

She looks directly at him, keeping her gaze purposefully innocent.

Slowly, she places the finger inside her mouth, sucks the chocolate off, swirling her tongue leisurely around the tip when she slides it back out.

His jaw clenches.

His breath stops for a good three seconds until it's suddenly let out in a jerky exhale.

His spoon clatters against the plate when he sets it down, deafeningly loud in the tense silence.

Shannon bites back a smile as the intoxicating mixture of victory and a medley of other feelings swirls chaotically about inside her.

Boone mutters a quick farewell and bolts.

VII.

He gets better at hiding it.

Or, at least he thinks he does.

But Shannon knows what to look for now, so he may as well not even try. She knows him too well, can read all the subtle little signs.

It becomes a game, sort of.

Because she understands now. They have something. Something tangible, something real.

Something that can never, ever go anywhere.

_This is all they can ever have_.

So, she picks fights with him, she argues, and she lets him invade her personal space just a little too much, and she takes to finding reasons to bend down in front of him while wearing her lowest-cut shirts.

And when his fists clinch or his breathing stops or speeds up rapidly, when a flush creeps across his face, she adds a notch on the mental victory wall she keeps, high on power and endorphins.

Of course it's twisted. She realizes that.

But Shannon doesn't care nearly enough to stop.

So she gets a little power crazy sometimes. So she gets off to the idea of her step-brother watching her.

We all have our kinks.

She parades a string of boyfriends in front of him, each one more rebellious than the next, and eventually, she's riding on the backs of Harleys and she even buys a black leather jacket.

Of course, she wears it with spangly pink tops and diamond earrings, but still.

It gets the job done, and she likes the way he frowns disapprovingly when she sashays out the door, because she's a senior now, and she's on top of the world.

He's up late working on some college homework the night she comes in smelling like pot. (She didn't actually have any because of her asthma, but she doesn't let him know that.)

All it takes is one whiff, and he's at her, doing that thing where he yells in really hushed tones because he doesn't want to wake their parents.

Shannon doesn't really pay attention to the words, but he's getting closer and closer and quieter and quieter, when he just seems to run out of words or steam or _something_. But he's stopped talking and this is new.

His breathing is harsh.

He is probably only four or five inches away from her.

She can see the little flecks of different colours in his eyes.

She can also see the desperation, his control warring against the next action everything in his being is screaming for. Maybe not even so much see it, as she can feel it. Sense it.

Maybe it has something to do with Yin and Yang and all that and perfectly complementary halves because the only words she can think are _yes_ and _please _and _for the love of God, just do it already_. But he doesn't, of course he doesn't, because he's Saint Boone, and his flesh will never get the best of him.

VIII.

Two months later, it's 11 PM on New Year's Eve, and she stumbles out of a cab and into their mansion.

She had a little too much to drink. Not enough to be drunk, but enough that she's going to need to coerce Boone into going and getting her car for her in the morning.

She finds him in the basement, or what they've deemed the Man Cave, with the surround sound and big screen TV and overstuffed leather couch.

He's holding a warming bottle of champagne, sprawled in front of the television.

Empire Strikes Back plays on the screen.

"Why're you back so early?" Boone asks when she drops down next to him. He hasn't gotten too far into the champagne, but she knows it's probably enough to cause a nice buzz.

"Ashley threw a bitchfit 'cause she thought I was trying to steal her boyfriend."

"Were you?"

"No! God, Boone. I may not have the highest standards, but I don't do cheating."

"No, you'll just do everything else on the planet," he remarks, rolling his eyes and turning away from her, back to the television.

"Okay, _what_ is your problem?"

"Me? I have no problem. I am completely and totally problemless. My life is perfect."

"Fine. Whatever. Just sit down here in your cave of pathetic solitude. I'm leaving."

Shannon pushes herself up off the couch, then halts. "Oh, and I'm going to need you to get my car in the morning. I took a cab back from Ashley's party."

"Of course, Your Highness."

She just shakes her head and walks off, but she only gets a few feet before his voice calls her to a stop.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay."

She turns back around.

"I'm just a…" he holds up his thumb and forefinger a couple centimeters apart, wrinkling his eyebrows together, "teensy bit drunk. I didn't mean it."

"It's fine."

"Did you see what I'm watching?"

"Of course."

"Want to stay with me? It's just wrong to leave your poor step-brother all alone on New Years Eve."

Shannon heaves a dramatic sigh. "I guess. It's not like I have anywhere else to be." But she gives him an indulgent smile, and for a second, it's almost like old times.

He scoots over a couple feet, placing the champagne bottle on the table beside the couch.

She sits down next to him, sinking into the leather cushion.

They watch in silence for a couple minutes.

"I've decided that the next time we fight, I'm gonna call you a scruffy-looking Nerf herder. It just has a good ring to it."

"What? I'm not scruffy."

"That's what Han said."

"Well, I don't know about him, but I'm generally smooth and utterly non-scruffy."

"Yeah? What do you call this, then?" she laughs, reaching out to run her fingers over his day-old stubble.

He immediately grasps her wrist and pulls her arm down, and her fingers graze his lips in the process. He avoids her eyes, keeping his on the movie.

"What's your deal? Did we adopt a No Touching policy I didn't know about?"

"Just watch the movie."

"Okay." She complies for a few seconds, then adopts an oh-so-innocent expression and softly pokes his arm a couple times. Draws back. Tickles his knee. Draws back. She's about to reach behind his neck and find those pressure points he told her about once, much to his regret, when he interrupts.

"Shannon!"

"Yeeees?"

"Cut it out."

"Or what?"

"Cut it out, or…I'll tickle you."

"Seriously? God, what are you, twelve?" He would never do it, or she might be a little worried. She was horribly ticklish when she was little, and although they haven't had a tickle fight for years – because, well, _duh_ – Shannon doesn't want to find out if she's as bad now as she used to be.

But she can't help herself, really. Call it years of habit, but she loves to annoy him.

She reaches over and gives his arm a pinch.

More to see how he'll actually react than anything.

What she doesn't expect is that he does exactly as he warned.

The moment his fingers make contact with her midriff, she squeals, scooting to the opposite end of the couch. He follows her, leaning over, finding that spot just above the inside crook of her left elbow. She giggles helplessly, smacking him on the head. That yields no effect, so she wriggles down until she can reach his weak place, on his sides, right below the ribs. She is nearly breathless with laughter, and when she tickles him, he shouts "Hey! No fair."

He changes tactics, taking grabbing her wrists and dragging them away from his body and above her head.

And suddenly, everything goes still.

The movie plays in the background, but Shannon doesn't hear it. Her world consists of his legs intertwined with hers, his thumbs at her pulse points on her wrists, his lithe body pressed all against her. The hems of both their shirts have ridden up during the exchange, and they're skin to skin at the abdomen.

Shannon's body feels like it has been engulfed in flames.

Boone seems paralyzed.

Shannon could bite or lick her lips or try any of those tricks she's picked up from magazines and romance novels, but she has no idea if they would break his control or frighten him away. And she doesn't want to risk it, _she can't_.

So she doesn't move. Barely dares to breathe.

He doesn't break suddenly. He just keeps eye contact with her and leans in, what seems like millimeters at a time. Shannon cannot help that she's breathing these quick, shallow breaths, but so is he, and it doesn't matter anyway.

His lips just _barely_ make contact with hers. It's light. Perfect. Seemingly chaste, except she knows what's going on behind the misleadingly innocent gesture.

He maintains the contact for barely more than a second when his head snaps back. Panic flashes across his face, like he expects lightning to come from heaven and strike him down any second. He scrambles to sit up, away from her, then pauses, like he can't quite process what just happened.

But Shannon got what she wanted. He broke. He changed the rules.

And he is not getting away that easily.

Now it's her turn. Before he can say a word, she's up on her knees, leaning into him, and they're just a tangled mess of skin on skin and leather and sweat and hands and lips and teeth and tongues and "I want you," and "Yes," and _more more, always more, please more, __**never enough**_.

Her arms go around his middle, and she pulls him to her, _hard_.

She's had to wait forever for this, it seems like.

But God, it was worth it.

He groans when her teeth find his bottom lip.

She gasps and shudders when his fingers brush against the sides of her breasts.

Her fingers search for the hem of his shirt, and she tugs it over his head. She wants so much to touch him all over, that skin so beautifully golden, even in the end of December.

Her action must have knocked over the bottle of champagne, though, and suddenly, their heads are both getting drenched in tepid liquid.

But it could have been ice cold, for the effect it had.

Boone lurches up with a muttered obscenity. He strides toward the stairs without a backward glance, but pauses just before he reaches the door.

He speaks, but he doesn't turn around to face her.

"This will never happen again," he says, and Shannon doesn't know if he's talking to himself or her. Probably both.

It doesn't matter, anyway.

IX.

That's the last she sees of him for three days, and when he does reappear, it's to tell her that he's transferring to New York at the beginning of the next semester.

Two weeks, and he'll be gone.

Shannon allows just a fraction of her surprise to show, and not a shred of the injured feelings.

"Why New York?" is all she asks.

"It's just somewhere I've always wanted to go."

"I'll miss you," she says, and it's just a step-sibling thing. No hidden messages.

_Yeah, right._ There's always hidden messages with them.

He gives her a cryptic smile that could say any one of a million things and just shuts the door.

It takes her an hour that night before she's cried out and exhausted enough to fall into a restless sleep.

X.

Maybe he thinks his moving will magically fix things, but after a year, that's obviously not the case. The first time she called him, he ignored her, but he could never hold out for long and it only takes him a week to cave.

So, she calls him. It's not like she does it every night, and sometimes she'll go as much as three or four weeks. But she always calls him. She updates him on her life, and he gives her some vague details about his.

They still argue, except it's not quite the same when you're not face-to-face, and a small part of what used to be sexual tension has turned to bitterness on both ends.

He's still there when she needs him.

He always will be.

Some people could accuse her of leading him on, being a tease, a bitch, enjoying his attention and unfairly taking advantage. But the thing is, she wants him just as much as he wants her. She just happens to have fallen into this role in their little game. It's a mutual thing; if either of them ever stopped having these feelings, the game would fall apart. They could just go on leading their own happy little lives, separate, seeing each other every other year on Thanksgiving or Christmas.

But the thing is, they _do_ have these feelings.

They _do_ play this game

Probably, this thing will end up spinning out of control. Probably, they'll both lose.

But she _can't let it go_.

And neither can he.

They're both participants, willing or not.

The winner takes it all.


End file.
